


who is left (and who is leaving)

by bree_black



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, Hunting, M/M, Post Season 7, Purgatory, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bree_black/pseuds/bree_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completely without allies after Dean disappears, Sam decides desperate times call for desperate measures and takes a job working for Crowley, developing a new version of Dick Roman's "vamptonite" that will work on all monsters. It seems like a win-win situation - Sam becomes a more efficient hunter than ever before, and Crowley takes out his competition for earthly dominance. But during his work Sam meets a man who reminds him of Dean, and the more time they spend together the less certain Sam is that he's doing the right thing. Once he finally discovers a way to get Dean out of Purgatory, Sam is forced to decide how far he’s willing to go to get the one thing he’s always wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who is left (and who is leaving)

It’s actually harder when there’s no body.

Sam wouldn’t have believed, if you’d told him before it happened, that knowing his brother was dead would be easier than knowing he’s probably alive, but it’s true. Dean’s body, bleeding and torn to shreds by hell hounds, was the worst thing he’s ever seen, but at least he’d seen it, laid hands on it, shed tears over it, put it in the ground.

This time, he’s got nothing to hold on to. Dean is just _gone_ , body and soul, and Sam is utterly and completely alone - without even a corpse to burn.

The worst part is not knowing. So Sam focuses on the things he _does_ know.

He knows Dean is likely in Purgatory, if Crowley was right about him and Cas hitching a ride with Dick. He knows he can’t open Purgatory without repeating Cas’ mistakes. He knows the Leviathans are still out there - leaderless and disorganized, but still deadly and impossible to kill. He knows Crowley is still King of Hell, and that it’s only a matter of time before he finds a way to take advantage of the Leviathan situation. And he also knows he’s the only person alive who knows all of the above.

What he doesn’t know is what he’s supposed to do about it.

Sam picks his way through the Demon-Leviathan skirmish raging outside Dick’s headquarters, picks his way through the broken glass to climb into the Impala’s driver’s seat, and drives her as far away as he can before the engine starts making some truly alarming noises. Then he pulls into a cheap motel - half its neon lights burnt out - and checks himself in.

He switches on the black and white television, and waits.

The news reports start within hours. Hundreds rioting near Sucrocorp labs, and Dick Roman rumoured to have left the country. The news experts’ leading theory is that some chemical in the corn syrup manufacturing process leads to sudden and violent insanity. By the next morning they suspect the chemical may actually be in the food itself, leading to an epidemic of mass hallucinations, particularly of monsters eating people. There are other attacks too, people with sharp claws or strangely sharp teeth biting innocent bystanders and then dropping dead a moment later, covered with strange acid burns.

Buried among the increasingly horrifying news items delivered by increasingly hysterical news anchors is a tiny item of business news: Dick Roman Enterprises purchased for an undisclosed sum by one A.J. Crowley, who will take control of the company and all its assets immediately.

 

 

Sam spends two days on research. He rehearses his presentation in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. He spends the majority of his savings getting the car fixed, and what little is left on a new suit. He cites his sources, he makes a pie chart. It feels oddly like being back in college. He files it all away into a three-ring binder, and then drives twelve hours to the personal residence of A.J Crowley, new owner of the former Dick Roman Enterprises (now Trident Properties).

The butler who opens the door is probably a demon, though Sam can’t be sure without running any tests.

“I’m here to see Crowley,” he says, resisting the urge to reach for his flask of holy water.

“His Majesty doesn’t take visitors without an appointment,” he answers haughtily, already closing the door.

Sam steps forward, putting a foot between the frame and the door to prevent it from closing. “Whenever he has a moment,” he insists. “I can wait.”

 

 

“Morning, sunshine. Could you kindly remove your filthy boots from my very expensive furniture?”

Sam wakes up suddenly, wiping frantically at the line of drool running down the side of his face. He sits up, guiltily brushing at the mud his boots have left on the upholstery of Crowley’s couch.

“Hi,” he says, brain still foggy with sleep. He’d been dreaming of Dean.

“Hi?” Crowley says. “You spent forty-eight hours waiting in my sitting room and all you have to say for yourself is ‘hi’?’”

“I wanted to speak with you,” Sam says, reaching up to straighten his hair.

“Clearly,” Crowley says. “But let me save us both some time. I have no interest in helping you find your brother or his pet winged monkey. The three of you have been a thorn in my side for too long already, and I’m inclined to kill you right now and finish the whole thing off.”

“Fine,” Sam interrupts. “Go ahead. But just hear me out first.”

Crowley sighs heavily. “Alright,” he says. “What can I do for you _now_?”

“I’d actually like to talk about what _I_ can do for _you_ ,” Sam says. “I want you to give me a job.”

Crowley is so startled it actually takes him a moment to laugh. “You? Work for me? I wasn’t aware you had enjoyed our last arrangement so much.”

“I didn’t,” Sam says, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “But this time will be different. I want to be your VP.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “My second-in-command? Bit familiar isn’t it, this narrative? You’ve had your shot at the Prince of Darkness title, if I remember correctly.”

“I’d rather work under you than under Azazel,” Sam says, deliberately flirtatious. It’s transparent and kind of pathetic, but Crowley smiles.

A moment later they’re sitting on opposite ends of a long table, in a completely windowless board room. Sam’s chair is made of leather and incredibly comfortable.

“Let’s hear it,” Crowley says. “What is this exciting business opportunity I’m about to turn down?”

“You have a problem,” Sam begins. “The same problem the Leviathans had. The world is getting kind of crowded. Between all the usual monsters and the Leviathans, you’re facing a lot of competition on the evil-on-Earth front. You may not actually _eat_ humans, but you prey on them all the same.”

“A hobby I was under the impression you strongly disapproved of,” Crowley interrupts.

Sam’s got momentum going, so he ignores the interjection. “The Leviathans are all new, and taking up a lot of space. Plus Eve’s army-building strategies upped the old-school monster population _and_ wiped out a lot of good hunters. What you need - what Dick knew he needed - is population control.”

“And what makes you think I need your help with that?”

“I know you have Dick’s additive, the one that wipes out vampires, werewolves, and all the other people-eaters. You would have seized the formula when you bought the company; it’s pretty obvious that’s all you were after.”

“The man also had a fair number of quite impressive evil lairs.”

“But you have a problem,” Sam rushes on, undeterred by Crowley’s refusal to take him seriously. “The vampires, at least, know the additive exists, and they know who’s behind it. We spoke to their Alpha. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out you have it and come after you. If he was smart, he’d ally himself with some of Eve’s other children.”

“And?”

“And you need a hunter. No one knows more about monsters than I do. How to avoid them, manipulate them, _kill them._ You don’t have time to personally supervise a war on two fronts, so we should divide and conquer. You handle the Leviathans and I’ll take care of the rest of the monsters. I’ll help disseminate your additive, I’ll intercept their communications, I’ll keep them away from you, and if I need to, I’ll march into the Alpha Vamp’s lair and kill him myself.”

Sam gets out of his very comfortable chair and marches to Crowley’s end of the table, placing the thick binder in front of him.

“Inside you’ll find a catalog of all the creatures we can expect the additive to work on, and a list of others that might be immune. Dick’s guy only indicated it works on ‘anything with a taste for human flesh,’ and I can think of at least thirty species that don’t directly consume human flesh it may be ineffective against. We’ll need to run tests; I’m more than happy to track down enough test subjects for full scientific trials.”

“I could have any demon do that, you know.” Crowley leans back, puts his feet up on the table. But Sam recognizes his casual posture as an act masking real interest.

“Not the way I can. Dean and I have encountered more monster species than any of your demons have reason to. Besides, it will take creativity, subtlety and patience to track down all these species and customize strategies for feeding them the additive without their knowledge. Demons typically don’t have that kind of...nuance.”

“You certainly are a resourceful, persistent bugger.” Crowley flips idly through Sam’s portfolio. “But what’s in this for you?”

Sam doesn’t hesitate. “I kill monsters. That’s my job; it’s all I’ve ever done. But as you pointed out, I find myself completely without allies, and I’d rather not hunt alone. Why not take the opportunity to start a large-scale operation? If I help you distribute the additive I can exterminate as many monsters in a month as I would during a lifetime of case-by-case hunts. Our goals converge.”

“And what, pray tell, would you ask for in payment?”

Sam smiles because he knows he’s won. “A living wage. Access to your properties for use as headquarters as I travel, and all the resources in your labs and weapons stores, of course. Protection from any demon attacks.”

“And help with your brother,” Crowley adds.

Sam falters. “I...I was under the impression nothing could be done about that.”

Crowley nods. “Nothing _that I know of._. But I could make inquires. My resources are nearly unlimited after all, and you should know by now that nothing’s impossible. I will look for a way to free your brother, and, should your performance impress me, I’ll let you know what I find. I like for my employees to stay motivated.”

Sam swallows hard, then holds out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You need to _blend in_ , Sam. I have enough personal history with you not to doubt your skill set, and I like your work ethic, but I’m not sure you have the proper _character_ to be a member of my team.”

“You mean because I’m not evil?” Sam says.

“Oh, no. I suspect you’ve done more evil deeds than some of my department managers. The problem is that you’ve always committed those deeds with such sickeningly good intentions. You started the Apocalypse because you thought you were preventing it, for fuck’s sake. I don’t care how much blood Azazel made you drink as an infant, there’s just not enough _sin_ in you.”

“I’m not as pure as you think,” Sam says, with certainty.

Crowley’s grin is slow and malicious. “I suspect you’re right. Tell me Sam, have you ever wanted something you know is wrong, just because _you_ want it? No ‘greater good’ rubbish.”

Sam glances down at the floor before he can stop himself, bites the inside of his cheek. When he forces himself to make eye contact again Crowley is still grinning, though now it’s a knowing smile, like he can see into Sam’s tainted soul.

“Yes,” Sam answers. “Yes, I’ve wanted that.”

Crowley stands. “Excellent. Then I’ll hire you on a probationary basis. But remember, Sam, sinful thoughts aren’t enough. If I don’t see some action, you’ll never win employee of the month.”

“Understood.” Bile rises in the back of Sam’s throat as he says it.

“Shall we seal the deal?” Crowley asks, and kisses Sam hard.

It’s the first time Sam’s ever kissed a man.

 

 

Sam is assigned a corner office with a view in Dick Roman’s former headquarters. It’s actually not far from Charlie’s old cubicle. He knows because he passes a slightly faded _Harry Potter_ sticker every time he goes to the bathroom. Sam has his own computer and a completely legitimate ID pass, complete with blurry photo and security clearance. He has a secretary, a coffee order, and a tab opened under his real name at the pub on the corner.

He checks into the closest motel to the office, and pays an entire month’s rent out of an advance on his first paycheck. He makes sure it has a kitchenette, and he stocks the mini-fridge with groceries. He spends nine hours a day at the office - working alongside colleagues, half human and half demon, whose names he doesn’t bother to learn. Both species call him “sir” when they see the color of the pass he wears around his neck. He comes home at night and watches game shows and reality TV until he falls asleep on scratchy motel sheets.

He’s just your average Joe working his nine to five office job, except that his goal is to exterminate vampires and his boss is the King of Hell. It’s a bizarre, inside-out version of the lifestyle Sam had dreamed of as a kid, and he wishes he had someone to laugh about that with.

Sam works to keep from thinking. He pins a giant map of the entire U.S. to one of the walls in his office and marks known monster populations with multi-colored thumbtacks. He has his secretary set up alerts for electrical storms, cattle death, sudden drops in temperature and the like, plus, of course, any kind of mysterious death. In the last hour of every work day, Sam combs through all the data she’s compiled and adds it to his map.

His goal is to track down at least thirty different monster species and test Dick’s additive on all of them. He knows it works on vampires, but he’s not going to make assumptions about anything else. It’s likely modifications will need to be made to the formula for some unique species, and in that case Sam will need to capture a few specimen of each - alive - and bring them back to the lab for the research department.

On top of that, Sam needs to deal with the Alpha Vamp, who is bound to notice that even with Dick dead, even with human prey returning to its usual speed and intelligence, his children are still dying when they feed.

Sam hadn’t even needed to persuade Crowley to stop using Dick’s original corn syrup recipe. “Much less fun torturing humans when they don’t fight back,” he’d said. “Takes the sport right out of it.” But they’d left the monster-poison additive intact, mixed in with regular old high-fructose corn syrup, because why fix something if it’s not broken?

Sam has a lot on his plate and no one to delegate to, which is exactly how he likes it. He keeps his head down and his brain busy, and he uses the company health insurance policy to get a prescription for some pretty impressive sleeping pills, ones that knock him into deep and dreamless oblivion every night. It’s not much of a life, but at least he’s alive.

He spends a month doing research, then setting up the most efficient route to hit all of the chosen hotspots on his map. He plans to drive the Impala rather than one of the company cars. If he has to capture anything and send it back, he’s got assurances of demon assistance along the way, and shouldn’t have any trouble passing an unconscious creature or two off to one of Crowley’s underlings.

The night before his scheduled departure, Crowley summons Sam to his home office.

“And how is my Boy King?” Crowley says, handing Sam a tumbler of what he know will be very, very good scotch.

Sam takes the glass, sniffing it hesitantly before taking a sip.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” Crowley says. “Why would I want to kill you? I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

Sam sits, takes a sip of his scotch so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the compliment. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d check in with you before you left, make sure you have everything you need.”

Sam nods, takes another gulp of his drink, and tries not to cough. “Eleven scheduled stops in my first trip. They gave me a new phone in IT, so I can call for help transporting stuff back to the lab.”

“I could get you a partner, that offer stands. I’ve heard hunting alone can be a dangerous business.” Crowley sounds almost proud, like he’s personally responsible for the danger.

“I don’t want a partner,” Sam says, too quickly.

“I thought you’d say that,” Crowley says. “And I must ask you to reconsider. You’re grieving for your brother, and that’s perfectly understandable. I know how _close_ the two of you were.”

“Stop talking about him,” Sam says, losing his carefully cultivated professional calm.

“No,” Crowley says. “I’ve put too much time and energy into you to watch you burn out or self-destruct. You’re my _investment_ and I’ve put a lot of responsibility on your shoulders. You need to let him go.”

Sam laughs. “Forgive me if I don’t take advice from you.”

“Whenever a door closes a window opens, Sam. You’ve lost your brother and that’s just terrible, but it’s time to start looking for the silver lining. He was holding you back; love always does. Now you have your freedom, so what are you going to do with it?”

Sam slams his empty glass down on the table. “Fuck you,” he snarls, storming out of the room.

“Stay in touch, love,” Crowley calls after him.

 

 

Sam doesn’t go back to the motel. Instead, he wanders Crowley’s mansion aimlessly. He has half a mind to find a weapon and try to cut the guy’s head off, though he knows it probably wouldn’t work. He passes more than a few demons, but none of them pay any attention to him - they know who he is, and how valuable he is. They probably assume he’s still here on business.

Sam ends up descending a dark stone staircase, lit only by torches affixed to the damp walls, somewhere in the bowels of the house. He wonders if it’s deliberately designed to be reminiscent of Hell. He hears a scream from below, and thinks the answer is probably yes.

There’s a long stone hallway at the bottom of the stairs, lined with heavy iron cages. In front of each cell, devil’s traps are scrawled in red paint - Sam hopes it’s paint - on the rough stone floor. He turns around, and moves to head back up the stairs. He doesn’t need to see this.

“Sam Winchester,” drawls an all-too-familiar female voice. “I’d recognize your lumbering footsteps anywhere.”

Sam stops, walks forward into the dark and peers into the first cell on the left. “Meg,” he says.

She sits on the ground, back to the wall dividing her cell from the next, and waves up at him. “Howdy,” she says. There’s blood on her jacket - a lot of it.

“I figured they’d caught you,” Sam says.

Meg nods. “Thanks for the rescue mission, by the way.”

Sam shrugs. “I actually assumed you’d be killed on sight.”

Meg laughs. “So did I. But Crowley decided it would be more fun to keep me around as his whipping girl, I guess. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to help me. I hear you’ve switched sides.”

“It’s complicated,” Sam begins, but Meg interrupts.

“You don’t need to make excuses to me. If you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em, right? You have your own ass to save; I get it.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. He doesn’t like Meg and never has, but he’s acutely aware that she’s one of the only people he’s ever fought side by side with still on Earth.

“Listen,” Meg says. “Is it true what they’re saying? Are Dean and Cas in Purgatory?”

Sam nods.

“Well, fuck,” Meg says, and it sounds like she means it. It’s the first time anyone else has expressed any regret, the first time since it happened he’s had anyone to talk to about it, and Sam feels profoundly grateful.

“Crowley says he’ll look for a way to get him out,” Sams says, “but obviously I’m skeptical.”

“Them. You mean get _them_ out, right? I like that angel.”

“Why?” Sam asks. Truthfully, he hasn’t thought much about Castiel.

Meg smirks. “Because he likes me.”

Sam hears footsteps from down the hall, and while he hasn’t strictly been prohibited from visiting Crowley’s dungeon, he’d rather avoid any awkward questions.

“Listen, I’m going on a trip for awhile. For work. But I’ll come visit you again,” Sam says quickly.

Meg raises an eyebrow. “Sure,” she says, “if I’m still alive by the time you get back.”

 

Being back on the road is harder than Sam expected. There are too many reminders of Dean in every hunt; even driving the Impala, every moment behind the wheel, Sam imagines he can hear Dean’s off-key singing, can smell the mixture of leather and cologne and sweat that has always made his heart beat faster.

He can’t stop thinking about what Crowley said, about Dean holding him back, and about what he might be able to let himself do, now.

He finishes his first hunt without incident - confirms his hypothesis that yes, the additive does work on werewolves without modification - and is on his way to the second mark on his map when he finally cracks.

It’s the middle of the night when Sam pulls over onto the shoulder of an empty stretch of highway and rolls down the driver’s side window to let in the still-warm summer air. He takes three deep, steadying breaths, like readying himself for a fight, and then reaches into the Impala’s backseat and grabs Dean’s duffel bag, which he hasn’t opened since that day.

He rummages inside until he finds a grey t-shirt, wrinkled but not stained, and presses it over his mouth and nose. It smells like Dean, still. Sam inhales deeply, imagining the traces of Dean left on the shirt being drawn into his lungs, seeping into his blood and running through his veins. Then he reaches down with his free hand and unbuttons his jeans, unzips the fly.

Sam has never masturbated while thinking about his brother on purpose before. It’s only ever happened by accident, in moments of weakness or when he’s been drunk, creeping into his other, safer fantasies until he forces himself to veer sharply away again. He’s spent half his lifetime perfecting the art of _not_ thinking of Dean while he jerks off, going so far as to never allow himself to think about any men at all. He’s learned to focus on petite blonde women with long curls and soft curves who smell like vanilla body lotion and flowery shampoo, because it’s the furthest he can get from what he wants most of all.

Not this time. Sam shoves down his jeans and boxers, keeping Dean’s shirt pressed against his face, and tentatively strokes his cock. He ignores the guilty twist in his stomach and, instead of replacing the images that automatically come to mind, deliberately intensifies them. He thinks about Dean covered in dirt and sweat after a hunt, then Dean fresh out of the shower in one of a thousand motel rooms they’ve shared. He thinks about Dean at nineteen and Dean at thirty-three, and all the ways his body has changed and the ways it hasn’t, and about how Sam is the only person in the world who’s seen all it happen.

He bites back a groan and then realizes he doesn’t have to, that no one can see him or hear him, and that there’s no one he cares about on Earth left to judge him anyway. He strokes himself faster, presses Dean’s shirt closer until he’s biting down on the cotton, eyes squeezed shut as a flood of images he’s spent a lifetime repressing streams through his mind’s eye. Sam fucks his own hand and lets himself imagine he’s fucking Dean.

His orgasm takes him by surprise, ripping suddenly through his body like a dam bursting. Sam screams his brother’s name as he comes, and what he feels most is _relief_ , the blissful peace of caving in. He sits for a long time, sweaty and sticky behind the steering wheel of Dean’s car. When his breathing returns to normal, he wipes his come off his hand, wrist, stomach with Dean’s t-shirt, and waits for the guilt to hit him.

It doesn’t. Though he probably shouldn’t admit it, as he starts the engine again, all Sam feels is _free._

 

 

Two days later, Sam successfully traps a Wendigo. It’s a pretty fucking huge accomplishment single-handed, and he nearly loses an arm in the process. He injects it with the additive while it’s struggling in a giant steel net procured for Sam by the local demon contingent, and he’s thrilled when the thing dies within a minute, because he had no idea how he was going to transport it back to HQ.

High on adrenaline and with no one to share his victory, Sam decides to go out and celebrate. Six shots and three beers later, he’s in a stall in the dingy bathroom at the back of a roadside bar, his pants around his ankles, and some guy on his knees in front of him.

“Shit,” Sam says, as a general expression of bewilderment and uncertainty, and of just how fucking _drunk_ he is.

The guy, though, takes it as encouragement. He looks up at Sam and grins, and everything is wrong. His eyes are brown, not green, his lips are too thin, and he’s got a streak of blue painted into the front of his hair.

Sam is drunk and not exactly on his best behaviour. He shoves the guy’s head down and pulls him forward by his hair. He gives a short, startled laugh and then responds with enthusiasm, sucking back Sam’s cock.

Sam groans and lets his head fall back against the back of the stall. He keeps one hand twisted in the guy’s hair; with his eyes closed he can’t see the blue and it’s almost right. It’s not hard to conjure up an image of Dean; after all, his is the face Sam has spent more time looking at than any other.

It takes longer than it usually does for Sam to get off, partly because he’s had so much to drink, but also because he’s savouring this, taking his time, holding on as long as possible. He imagines he’s in a cheap motel room, not a club, and that if he looked down he’d see Dean’s green eyes, full of laughter and ready to pull off his cock and tell Sam to just _come already_ , he doesn’t have all day. Sam pictures a line of spit - or maybe precome - connecting his cock and Dean’s lower lip, and for some reason it’s that detail that pushes him over the edge.

Sam comes, and the guy in the bar pulls off, coughing and then laughing, wiping his mouth, and teasing Sam for not giving him any warning. Sam doesn’t really hear much - he’s drunk and now he’s tired, and reality’s crashing in on him pretty hard. Thankfully the guy takes the hint, and a minute later Sam’s alone and pulling up his pants.

It’s a strange experience, but mostly good, and so Sam does it again the next night, in the next town, at the next bar with the next man. After all, there’s no reason not to anymore.

 

 

Sam has some trouble with the mermaid. Water-based cases aren’t exactly his strong suit, if only because he hasn’t actually encountered very many of them over the years. Dad’s theory was that water - known to repel some kinds of demon - has a stabilizing influence that tends to discourage supernatural activity. It’s always been a strong enough explanation for Sam - he can swim, but given the choice he’d rather fight a monster on solid ground.

Which is why the mermaid situation really sucks. He _really_ wishes the chemical had worked this time.

Sam ends up in the ocean, thrashing around trying not to die, while a handful of demons stand around looking bored on the beach, refusing to so much as stick their toes in the water.

Mermaids, it turns out, are anything but beautiful. Instead of the soft clear skin of storybooks, they’re covered in huge, armor-like scales, and their long flowing hair is actually composed of hundreds of sea serpents. Normally, the snakes spend all their time fighting one another so that blood streams out behind her as a mermaid swims. Right now, they’re all simultaneously trying to bite off Sam’s junk.

Sam has enough tranquilizer on him to knock out an elephant; he just needs to get close enough to stab her with it.

“Here,” he says when he finally reaches shore, dragging the heavy unconscious body behind him. “Take this back to the lab. You’ll want to administer more tranquilizer every four hours.”

The demon in charge of the local group nods at Sam, but the sneer on his face gives him away. He likes working for Sam about as much as Sam likes working for Crowley. His flunkies approach the sleeping mermaid with caution, and then hoist her into the back of the tanker truck Sam instructed them to bring.

Sam hands off the extra tranquilizer, and then stomps off across the sand without even saying goodbye. He hopes he has dry clothes in the car.

 

 

At least the mermaid was the last item on the list for this leg of the mission. Now Sam can head back to headquarters, where the eggheads will already have started developing variations on the additive for Sam to test on the next leg. Sam, for his part, will have more research to do, more mapping, more travel arrangements. But he plans to take the trip back at a leisurely pace; he’s been working non-stop for six weeks and he figures he deserves a break.

His first stop is the local beer store. He goes in to buy a case - enough to last him through the weekend - and when he comes out again there’s a guy in a leather coat crouched down beside the Impala, looking underneath her chassis.

It sort of takes Sam’s breath away. He stands there, shocked into silence, until the guy pulls his head out from under the car. He doesn’t even look surprised to see Sam standing there, just smiles up at Sam before standing.

“This your car?” he says. “What is she, a ‘69?”

“‘67,” Sam says, still running on autopilot. He can see now that the man’s eyes are blue - not green - and that his legs are straight where Dean’s bowlegged. Still, the resemblance is striking in the fullness of his mouth, in the way he lovingly strokes the hood of the car.

He whistles, long and low. “Great piece of work. And you’ve kept her up really well.”

Sam merely nods again. There’s not enough air in his lungs.

The guys raises an eyebrow, then smirks at Sam. He is, after all, standing there like an idiot and staring at a stranger like he’s the second coming. “Okay well, thanks for letting me take a look at her.”

He slaps Sam on the shoulder as he heads into the store, just a friendly gesture, but it makes Sam’s dick go half-hard in his jeans.

Sam shakes his head to clear it, tosses his case of beer in the back seat of the car, and then forces himself to drive away and _absolutely not_ follow the stranger back into the store.

 

He ends up at a gay bar later that night. It’s not exactly Sam’s scene, all the flashing lights and pounding electronic music, but it’s easiest to pick someone up here so he doesn’t expect to stay long. Sam orders a drink and figures that by the time he’s finished it he’ll have found someone willing to go back to his motel room. He scans the dance floor for prospects, but gets distracted by a yell from outside.

No one else reacts - they probably assume it’s just someone a little too drunk, a little out of control, having an argument with his boyfriend or something - but Sam’s instincts are too strong for him to ignore. While everyone else keeps dancing, he abandons his drink and heads out the back door, hand on the gun tucked into its holster on his jeans.

At first he think they’re fucking. One guy has another pressed up against the hood of a car, and another stands just to their left, watching with a smile. Simple exhibitionism, maybe. But then the voyeur’s eyes turn black.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Hey, hold on.”

The first demon turns, and Sam sees the knife in his hand at the same time as he registers that the guy who’s pressed against the car, terrified expression on his face, is the guy from the beer store parking lot earlier today, and that he’s bleeding.

“Let him go,” Sam says. He takes his hand away from his gun holster, and reaches for the demon-killing knife in his jacket pocket instead. “He’s with me.”

The demons laughs, a harsh, grating sound that stops when Sam steps forward and into the glow of a streetlight.

“Oh,” the leader says. “It’s you.”

“That’s right,” Sam says, standing as straight as possible and opening his jacket so the light glints off the blade hidden there. “It’s me.”

“Whoa, whoa, relax, Winchester,” the demon snarls. “We’re on the same side now, right? We didn’t know this human belonged to you. Though now that I take a closer look,” he continues with a knowing smile, looking down at his victim appraisingly, “I can see that he’s your type.”

Sam draws his knife, stepping even closer. “Fuck off,” he shouts. “Now!”

The demons scatter, running in opposite directions, leaving Sam alone with the man he’s just rescued.

“Hey Impala guy,” he says dazedly. “I’m Leon.”

 

 

“You’re not going to convince me, dude,” Leon says half an hour later, from his perch on the second bed of Sam’s hotel room. “I know what I saw. They had pure black eyes, and they didn’t punch like any human I’ve ever met, either.” He holds a blood-stained hand towel to his head, staunching the flow of blood from his demon-inflicted head wound.

Sam sighs heavily. He’s spent the last twenty minutes trying to convince Leon he’d hallucinated those eyes, with absolutely no luck. His stubbornness, combined with his still-striking resemblance to Dean, is making it really difficult to lie to him.

“Alright fine,” Sam says with frustration. “You were attacked by demons, okay?” He expects the guy to laugh, or back away slowly, or to tell him to cut the bullshit.

“Are you a demon?” he asks, completely matter-of-fact.

Sam sputters. “No! Why would you think that?”

Leon shrugs. “They seemed to know you, that’s all. Like you’re their boss or something. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m very reluctantly working for their boss,” Sam explains. “Wait, you actually believe me?”

“Hard to deny what I saw with my own eyes,” Leon says. “And your explanation fits. Do I need stitches, you think?” He lifts the hand towel from his head.

Sam moves closer to look, and tries not to notice how he smells like leather and engine grease and blood, tries not to let the familiarity of that combination get to him. “No, you should be fine. Your wrist on the other hand...”

Leon winces. “I tried to fight back. That guy just snapped it like a twig.” It’s definitely broken; Sam doesn’t need to look any closer to tell that much. “You got something to dull the pain?”

Sam offers him one of the beers he’d bought earlier, and Leon frowns. “Anything stronger?”

Sam doesn’t have anything; he’d been planning on doing his drinking at the club. “I can give you a ride to the hospital,” he offers.

“Yeah,” Leon says. “Hey, you think they’d give me a job as a janitor or something to pay off my cast? I don’t exactly have insurance.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Sam says without thinking. He can afford it, after all, with what Crowley’s paying him. “Though you need a better job. I work for a demon and even I have benefits.”

Leon laughs, then gets up and grabs his jacket from the bed with his good hand. Sam follows him out the door, toward the Impala. He tries not to watch his ass.

“I’m a mechanic,” Leon says. “technically. Though I’m between jobs at the moment. I don’t even live here, actually. I was just passing through.”

Sam opens the door for him, telling himself he’s only doing it because of the broken wrist. Then he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Oh yeah, where are you headed?” he asks as he starts the engine, just making small-talk to distract the guy from his injury.

Leon peers into the backseat, at the duffel bag already packed and waiting. “I’m going wherever you’re going, Sam,” he says, and then leans over and kisses him.

Sam has avoided kissing any of the guys he’s picked up along his journey; in fact, the last person he’d kissed was Crowley. He’s a little rusty and a lot surprised, so the kiss is messy and awkward and unpracticed, but also really fucking good. Sam catches on after a second, leans into it hard, panting open-mouthed into the kiss. Leon reaches up to grab his face and pull him closer still and then -

“Jesus fucking Christ my wrist fucking hurts,” he hisses, pulling away suddenly. “Can we maybe pick up where we left off after I get some good drugs in my system?”

Sam, dizzy and tired and also happy for the first time in a long time, pulls out his phone to search for the nearest hospital.

 

 

“I _hate_ hospitals,” Leon says as they leave one, seven hours later.

“Me too,” Sam agrees. He admires the way the early-morning light shines off his hair, makes his eyes look more green than blue, almost. He hasn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours, and he nearly trips climbing into the car.

“I don’t think you’re safe to drive,” Leon says, squinting at him.

“Sure I am,” Sam tries to say, but it comes out as a yawn.

“Give me the keys,” Leon orders, and the casual, bossy authority of it goes straight to Sam’s head. He reaches into his pocket.

“Hey, wait,” he says suddenly. “You have a broken wrist. And you’re on painkillers!”

“I can drive one-handed,” Leon insists. “You can shift gears for me. And they didn’t give me the really good painkillers, so I’m more awake than you are, at least. Why haven’t you slept, anyway?”

“I was busy catching a mermaid.” Sam mumbles. He’s too tired to fight back, so he slides over to the passenger seat.

Leon grins as he climbs into the driver’s seat, stroking the steering wheel. “I hope you realize the driver gets to pick the music,” he says, and Sam can only smile.

Tired and comfortable, sitting in the passenger’s seat for the first time in months, with his head against the cool window, Sam lets the familiar rumble of the engine lure him toward sleep. If he looks over at Leon through just the corner of his eye, now singing along off-key to the classic rock station, he can almost believe everything is going to be okay.

 

 

“So why are you working for the demon?” Leon asks three days later, sitting cross-legged in the centre of the king-sized bed he’s insisted on for their motel room. There’s a pizza box open in front of him and he’s carefully picking the green peppers off a slice with his good hand. Dean doesn’t like vegetables on his pizza either.

Sam is bent over a map on his desk, adding the most recent information his secretary forwarded him. “Be careful,” he says. “Don’t get crumbs all over the bed.”

“Shut up,” Leon answers, then takes a huge bite of pizza and continues talking with his mouth full, “and stop avoiding the question.”

Sam has told Leon a little about his job, if only because it’s pretty difficult to polish your weapons without explaining to the guy sharing your motel room what they’re for. But he’s kept everything pretty current, hasn’t mentioned demon blood or the Apocalypse or - most importantly - his missing brother.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he says, and hopes against hope that will be enough. “I sold out.”

“Bullshit,” Leon counters. He throws a handful of soggy green peppers across the room, and they splatter across Sam’s map. “You obviously hate demons, and you’re not the kind of person to go against your beliefs without a good reason.”

Sam scoffs, picking green peppers off his work. “Three days on the road and drunken handjobs in the middle of the night and you think you know anything about me?”

Leon scowls. “You’d be surprised, actually. For example, I offered to let you fuck me but you opted for handjobs instead. Additionally, I had to fight you for the king instead of two queen beds tonight. So, sexual intimacy issues specifically related to sleeping with men. And since you’re a little old to be just figuring out you like dudes now, something else must have happened to spook you. Am I right?”

Sam frowns. “Honestly, you’ll like me a lot better if we don’t delve into my personal history, alright?”

Leon shrugs. “Whatever you say. Though when I decided to go on a road trip with the hot monster-hunter in the cool car who saved my life, I pretty much expected you’d have a few skeletons in your closet. Besides, I don’t know you shouldn’t be working for demons because of sex - I know it because of your car.”

Sam folds up his map and leans back in his chair. “Okay, you’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”

“If I do will you take the rest of the night off and do something fun with me?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “I thought I had hopeless sexual intimacy issues.”

Leon grins. “You can get over anything if you work at it hard enough. Besides, I meant do something fun outside of this motel room, you perv.”

“Sure,” Sam says. “It’s a deal.” He doesn’t strictly need to be back in the office for another week, and anyway, if he’s late Crowley will probably admire the show of bad behaviour.

“Alright. So the thing about your car is that it’s awesome, but it’s also completely wrong for your job. It’s not very fast. It’s got a poor turning radius. It’s loud, so you can’t exactly sneak up on people. Worse, it’s old, which means it breaks down a lot unless you put a ton of work into it, and replacement parts aren’t easy to find, and are expensive when you can get ‘em. If you were smart you’d drive something newer, faster and less recognizable.”

“Okay, and?”

“So this isn’t the kind of car you keep because it’s practical. You keep it because it means something, because you love it and you’re loyal to it, and because you’re not willing to trade it in. It’s not the kind of car a sell-out owns. It’s not the kind of car driven by someone who’s given up.” He looks at Sam expectantly. “Am I right?”

Sam nods, slowly. “Almost. But it isn’t my car, not really. It was my dad’s first, and then my brother’s. Dean’s the one who loved it, he’s the one who took care of it. I inherited it, but it says more about him than it says about me.”

Something clicks in Leon’s expression, and Sam realizes he’s revealed too much. “Did he die hunting?”

Sam nods, afraid to open his mouth in case more personal information should spill out. It’s as good as true.

“How long ago?”

Sam knows the exact number of days. “About three months,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Leon says. Then he brightens. “Well it’s a good thing you hooked up with a mechanic, though, because I’ll keep that car in perfect condition for you. Now come on, we’re going one-handed bowling.”

Sam lets Leon drag him out of the motel room, fingers curled together, and wonders what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

 

When Sam arrives at his office Crowley is already there, sitting in Sam’s rolling chair with his feet on Sam’s desk.

“Hi,” Sam says, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his wrinkled shirt and tousled hair still damp from the shower.

“Nice of you to finally make an appearance,” he says. “Your mermaid arrived nearly a week ago.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, though he doesn’t mean it. “I got a little held up.”

Crowley smiles. “So I’ve heard. I must say, the resemblance is uncanny.”

Sam stiffens. “You’ve been spying on me.”

“I had someone watching your hotel,” Crowley admits. “I just wanted to be sure you arrived home safely. Imagine my surprise when I heard you weren’t alone.”

“He’s none of your business,” Sam says quickly.

“So you’re keeping him then? Excellent. I’m glad you’ve taken my advice to loosen up a little bit. I will, of course, tell my men he’s out-of-bounds. You’ve done very well, Sam. I’ve been impressed with your progress reports, and I’m told the lab is well on the way to modifying the formula. You have exceeded my expectations.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, though the praise makes him feel faintly nauseous. He wants to be anywhere but this office.

“Believe it or not, I haven’t stopped by to dish about your new boyfriend. I’m here regarding your brother.”

Sam’s heart stops beating.

“I haven’t found a way to free him yet, but I have made inquiries and believe I have a few leads. Should your performance continue to impress me, I may have an answer for you at the end of the next stage of your project.”

Sam’s heart starts beating again, faster than normal. He recognizes that he’s being manipulated, of course, can clearly see the carrot Crowley is dangling in front of his nose. He doubts there’s a way to free Dean, and he doubts even more that Crowley will ever tell him what it is.

“Thank you,” Sam says again, breathless, and Crowley nods before he vanishes. The tiny flicker of hope in Sam’s chest burns painfully before it flickers out.

 

 

Sam half expects Leon to disappear shortly after they arrive in Chicago, but a week later he’s still there. He seems to spend the entire day watching the news, and always gives Sam a full report when he gets back from work.

“So those things with the teeth, the Leviosas or whatever, have started attacking people in the New York subway stations at night. They’re saying it’s a pack of feral dogs on the news, but it’s a pretty weak cover up.”

“Leviathans,” Sam says. “ And I know. It’s my job to know, and my secretary’s job to know. You don’t need to watch the news so much. You probably _shouldn’t_ watch the news so much.” He gets his arm caught in his stupid work blazer and struggles to tug it off.

“I know,” Leon answers, hopping off the bed and helping Sam out of his jacket. “But the world’s practically coming to an end. How can you expect me to look away?”

“The world’s actually come a lot closer to ending than this, and you had no idea,” Sam says. “We try to keep civilians out of it.” He realizes too late there’s no ‘we’ anymore. No Dean, no Bobby, no Cas, and if the hunting network knew who he was working for they’d probably disown him.

“About that,” Leon says. “That thing where I’m a civilian. Could we maybe change that?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“Business isn’t exactly booming lately, and honestly fixing cars seems kind of irresponsible when the world is on the verge of being overrun with monsters. I know you’re leaving in a couple weeks, and I thought maybe I could come with you?”

For one brief moment, Sam lets himself imagine what it could be like. He thinks about having backup, stealing food off each other’s plates in diners, cleaning guns together, having another head bent over the same book in the library. He thinks about the smell of gunpowder and sweat in the seat next to him, about a warm arm around his shoulder when he’s dead tired, about constant contact and never being alone for more than an hour without checking in. And he thinks about how _this time, this way_ he could also have fingers entwined over the gear shift, slow good morning kisses, showers together after a messy hunt...

He thinks about how in some ways hunting with Leon might even be better than hunting with Dean, and then the betrayal makes biles rise in the back of his throat and he says “No, absolutely not.”

Leon rushes on, completely unaware of Sam’s rising nausea. “I’m a pretty good shot,” he says. ‘My dad took me hunting a lot before he died. Ordinary hunting, but still. I’m a fast learner, Sam, and I want to help.”

Sam shakes his head. “I hunt alone. I need to hunt alone.”

“”But why? It’d be easier, safer with two. And I really like you, like being with you. I think we’d make a hell of a team.”

It’s too close to what Dean told him once, and something snaps in Sam’s brain so that for a second he doesn’t even see Leon, he sees Dean instead, green eyes instead of blue, an inch taller, one of his old familiar flannel shirts. It makes Sam want to laugh, and cry, and when he blinks the mirage away and Dean dissolves into Leon, brow furrowed with concern, it’s like losing his brother all over again.

Sam’s throat and eyes hurt. Before Leon can say anything else he turns on his heel and runs, slamming the motel room door behind him.

 

 

He’s not surprised Leon’s still there when he gets back, several hours and and countless miles of blind jogging later. It’s a trick Sam learned after Bobby died, to run so long and hard his body’s screams drown out his thoughts. Dean had thought he was just on a fitness kick, but there were a lot of things Dean didn’t really know about Sam.

He is surprised, though, by the nearly empty bottle of whisky that had been half-full when he’d left, and by the pile of shiny, laminated ID cards spread out across the end of the bed.

Leon holds one up when Sam enters the room, brandishing it like a weapon. “I went into your glovebox to look for my phone,” he says by way of explanation. “I was packing my shit.”

Sam nods. He’ll have found all the ID there, half of them featuring photos of Dean. He has to have noticed the resemblance, to have put it together, to have made assumptions about Sam’s attraction to him. And he won’t be wrong.

“This is Dean?” Leon says, slurring his words slightly. “The brother you hunted with?”

All Sam can do is nod again.

Leon sits down suddenly, and takes a deep breath. “Jesus,” he says.

“I know,” Sam says. “I’m sorry. I get that you need to break up with me, and obviously this is all on me.”

“Break up with you?” Leon says with a laugh, surprisingly light. “Is there even anything to break? Do you feel anything for me at all? Here I was worried you were mad because you thought I was trying to replace your brother when all along it was _you_ trying to replace him with me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Sam says. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” He feels dizzy and panicked at the thought of losing someone else, even someone he’s known for less than a month.

“Do you feel anything for me?” Leon repeats, enunciating carefully through his drunkenness.

“Yes,” Sam says, though he wasn’t sure of it until now. Something about not knowing what you have until it’s gone. “I was going to ask you to come with me.” It’s a lie, but it feels true.

“Really?” Leon says. He lapses into silence, narrows his eyes appraisingly. “How many times have you saved the world, Sam Winchester?”

The sudden change of subject throws Sam for a loop. “Uh, it depends how you count,” he says honestly. “Maybe two or three times?”

Leons stands unsteadily. “Well then I guess you’ve earned the right to be spectacularly fucked up, haven’t you?” He takes three steps forward to kiss Sam hard on the mouth, and he tastes like whisky and salvation.

Sam kisses back hungrily, grateful for whatever stopped Leon from leaving the moment he’d found those photos, and for whatever’s keeping him in Sam’s arms now. He’d thought, when he’d first gone to Crowley’s office, that he would be okay alone, but he was wrong. He breaks their kiss to breathe, tucks his face into the curve of Leon’s neck and bites gently at the vulnerable flesh there.

Leon makes a soft, appreciative noise, then reaches down to unbutton Sam’s wrinkled shirt from the bottom. “Clothes off,” he says firmly, and Sam’s not in any position to argue. He shucks off his shirt and jeans, toes off his socks, while Leon does the same - a little less efficiently, on account of all the whisky and the broken wrist. Hooking one finger under the elastic waistband of Sam’s boxers, he tugs him onto the bed.

This is the most naked Sam has ever been while in a sexual situation with a man, a fact he’s painfully aware of as he lies on top of Leon, their bodies pressing together in so many new places. Half of him wants to look away, embarrassed by so much bare skin, but the other half wants to stare, wants to memorize every single inch of it. He’s knows he’s allowed, now, but he’s afraid that if he tries he’ll miss the freckles, keep a mental catalogue of all the scars that should mark his lover’s skin, but don’t.

“Hey,” Leon says softly, and Sam looks up into his face, reminds himself these eyes are _blue_. “Did you ever fuck him?”

Sam fights the urge to jump back and away, the deep instinct toward denial and flight he’s always had whenever someone gets too close to the truth about how he feels about his brother. Sam forces himself to lie still, to look Leon in the eye.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like that. He didn’t know.”

“Okay,” Leon says, and maybe it’s because he’s less than sober, but there’s no judgement in his voice. “I want you to fuck me, then. There are condoms and lube in the bedside table.” Considering how drunk he is, and how upset he was just a few minutes ago, Leon is surprisingly matter-of-fact now. Sam wishes he knew what had changed.

But Sam wasn’t brought up to disobey a direct order, not one from someone he trusts. He wonders as he fumbles in the drawer, when Leon bought supplies, was it earlier this week or was it was he was out, after he found the photos of Dean in the glovebox? When, exactly, had he decided to forgive Sam, and why?

“Find it?” Leon asks, and Sam nods, closes the drawer, sits up again. He feels suddenly self-conscious, looking down at the tube of lubricant in his hand.

“Uh, I’ve never -” he starts, before trailing off.

“Oh,” Leon says. He squints at Sam like he’s a particularly fascinating puzzle. “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”

And that’s good, Sam likes that. Likes the way Leon takes control of the situation, guiding Sam’s hands without speaking, teaching by demonstration. It reminds Sam of learning to throw knives, fire a crossbow, shoot pool. Dean’s body leaning close to his, Dean’s fingers around his wrist, Dean’s hand on his hip. Dean’s is the only male body Sam’s ever been close to, acquainted with, and fighting that association now is futile; the flat planes of the body under his, the smell of sweat and spicy deodorant, and every low groan conspire to fill Sam’s brain with fog and make his cock go hard.

“Okay, ready,” Leon says after a time, and he’s put the condom on for Sam even though he probably could have managed that himself and Leon’s only got the one good hand.

Sam pushes in slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Leon’s face to make sure he’s not in pain only that’s not right because Leon’s eyes are too blue, too unfamiliar, not what he knows or what he wants. Being with Leon - being _inside_ Leon - feels exactly right and completely wrong at the same time. It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, exhilarating at first, but nauseating once you look down.

Sam feels dizzy. “I’m sorry,” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning over Leon’s body, burying his face in the damp skin of his throat, where it’s easier to pretend because skin tastes like skin no matter who’s wearing it.

“It’s okay,” Leon answers. Sam can feel his throat vibrate. “Everything’s okay.”

Sam takes that as forgiveness, as permission, and he lets himself forget, grateful that they lapse back into silence broken only by panting and groaning, generically masculine and easy fodder for his imagination. If it didn’t feel so good it would be scary how easily it happens. In a moment, it’s _Dean’s_ calloused hands rough against Sam’s back as he scrambles for leverage, _Dean’s_ erratic breathing before they find their rhythm.

Sam starts slow, but soon thrusts harder, faster. It’s not like Dean can’t handle it; he’s the toughest person Sam’s ever known, and even now that Sam’s bigger and taller, there’s a part of him that believes his big brother will always be stronger than he is. In any case Dean’s breath hitches when Sam finds the right spot, and he makes a tiny whimpering sound in the back of his throat. Dean’s voice is as familiar to Sam as his own, but he’s never heard _that_ particular sound before, and the brand-newness of it makes him shiver, makes him momentarily lose their rhythm. It’s a visceral reminder that there are still things he doesn’t know about his brother, that there are still places left to explore.

But as much as Sam’s mind wants to dwell in this moment, his body has other ideas. He braces himself on one arm and shoves his other hand between their bodies, wrapping it around Dean’s cock. He matches his strokes to the rhythm of their fucking, fast and firm and relentless. Dean expresses his appreciation by twisting his fingers in Sam’s always-too-long hair, and trying to pull him still impossibly closer. It hurts, but in the best possible way. Sam retaliates by sucking at Dean’s throat, so hard he suspects - maybe hopes - he’ll leave a bruise, by digging his fingers hard into Dean’s hips. He can feel Dean shaking underneath him.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, voice muffled so it’s hardly recognizable. Sam’s still got his eyes closed, but he thinks he must be covering his mouth with a pillow or something. “Oh god.”

Sam thrusts into Dean one more time - as hard as he can - and swipes his thumb across the head of Dean’s cock. It’s the light touch that makes the difference, makes his body go stiff for a moment, tight around Sam’s cock still buried inside him, before he shudders violently and gasps, come spilling over Sam’s hand and smearing between their stomachs.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans, and it’s that word as much as it’s the heat and the pressure and the motion, that nickname only Dean’s allowed to use, that pushes Sam over the edge. He yells as he comes, without sparing a second thought for the occupants of the room next door, and pushes Dean down into the mattresses, keeping them both safely pinned while they ride out their orgasms.

Reality hits him with the cold air as they pull apart, as he opens his eyes after bright red stars behind his eyelids fade and sees Leon’s blue eyes looking back at him. It should hurt, but mostly it just makes Sam feel numb. He wonders if maybe he’s used up all the pain he has for missing his brother, if all he has left is feeling _nothing._

“So I guessed right,” Leon says, expression unreadable, as Sam pulls out and away on autopilot, removes the condom and tosses it in the trash.

“Huh?” Sam manages, still disoriented by the pleasure humming through his nerves.

“He called you Sammy,” Leon clarifies. He uses one corner of the sheet to wipe his own come off his stomach.

Sam shrugs, the warm feeling in his gut rapidly replaced by guilt. “I guess.”

Leon switches off the lamp next to the bed, kicking back the sheet and climbing under it. “There’s no sense pretending you weren’t imagining I was him,” he says. “You screamed his name as you came.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, climbing under the sheet himself.

“No you’re not,” Leon answers. “It’s okay. I can handle myself. Now shut up so I can sleep.”

Sam tries, but something is poking him in the back, digging into his skin. He reaches underneath him and pulls out a plastic ID badge, from which Dean’s face stares expressionlessly down at him.

Sam slides it under his pillow, but it takes him a long time to get to sleep.

 

 

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Meg says from her cell. She steps out of the shadow and Sam winces at the deep cut running down one of her cheeks.

Meg grins. “Gruesome, isn’t it? Impressive what an iron knife can do.”

Sam looks down at his feet, trying to ignore the guilt tugging at his stomach. He and Meg had been almost like allies, once, and he doesn’t like to see _anything_ tortured.

“Relax,” Meg says. “I’m a big girl. You’re not responsible for this.”

“Not directly,” Sam says. “But I work for him, don’t I?” He’s been thinking about that a lot since Leon asked him about Crowley, about exactly how far darkside he can go without losing track of himself, even with the best intentions. He’s been thinking about what Dean would think of him sitting in his comfortable corner office and taking orders from the King of Hell.

Meg shrugs. “It’s not what I would do, for what it’s worth. Crowley’s an idiot.”

“Says the girl in his prison,” Sam says.

“If I recall correctly, I ended up here because I agreed to act as a diversion for you. Even so, if it’s not me who takes Crowley down it’ll be someone else soon enough.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “He seems pretty secure to me.”

“He’s cocky. He’s fighting a war on at least _three_ fronts. His ambition will get the best of him. I just hope I’m alive to see the empire collapse.”

“You’d do the exact same thing if you were him!” Sam insists. “You want to rule Hell just as much as he does.”

“Yeah, but Hell would be enough for me. Crowley already has Hell, made a stab at Purgatory, and is having you wipe out all the other monsters so he can have Earth all to himself, too. He’d try to take on Heaven if he thought he stood a chance.”

“And you’d leave Earth alone, would you?”

“Well, not completely,” Meg says. “I’m no saint. But I wouldn’t upset the balance so drastically. There’s a natural sort of, uh, symbiosis, between demons and humans and monsters and angels. It’s like an ecosystem, right? And between the Leviathans and Crowley’s megalomania, it’s _completely fucked._ I’ve seen ambition trip up everyone else - Azazael, Lucifer, even little Castiel - and I’m not interested in overreaching.”

“You’ve got this all thought out,” Sam says, kind of impressed.

Meg stretches out her arms. The tips of her fingers nearly touch the bars on either side of her cell. “I’ve got a lot of time to think,” she quips. “No, if I were Queen I wouldn’t rock the boat. I’d sit on my really big, cushy throne and enjoy a long and comfortable reign.”

“Cushy, comfortable jobs are kind of overrated,” Sam says, thinking about his new leather rolling chair.

“Maybe for those of you with morality,” Meg says. Her voice goes serious. “Any progress on breaking your brother and the angel out?”

Sam shakes his head. “Crowley says he has a lead, but he hasn’t given me any details.”

“And he never will,” Meg says.

“He’s all I’ve got,” Sam mutters.

“Is he, though? Seems to me he’s no expert on Purgatory.”

“What do you think I should do?” Sam asks.

“Think like a demon, Sam,” Meg says with a sly grin. “Double-cross him.”

 

The invitation arrives on the last afternoon before he’s set to leave on the second leg of his testing mission. It’s printed on thick paper with glossy red ink that looks disturbingly like blood. At least Sam hopes it only _looks_ like blood.

“We’ve been invited to dinner with my boss,” Sam says over the phone.

“Oh goody,” Leon replies, reaching impressive levels of sarcasm. “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting him.”

“I don’t think we can get out of it,” Sam says apologetically. “Seeing as you’re coming with me on work business and all.”

Sam can hear the smile in Leon’s voice. “I’m all packed and ready to go. Hey, have you ever considered using a water pistol full of holy water?”

“Tried it once,” Sam replies. “Took too long to pump the thing up.”

“Oh,” Leon says. “Okay. Just a thought. Anyway, yes, I’ll go to dinner with you. It’s a date.”

“Okay,” Sam says, trying not to let the word fluster him. “And, uh, you should probably buy a suit.”

 

 

Sam leaves work early to make sure he’s on time, and ends up arriving at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. Crowley is already there. He’s easy to spot because he’s the only person in the dining room.

“You buy the place out?” Sam asks.

Crowley shakes his head. “Haven’t you heard? Series of “animal” attacks in Chicago tonight. Citizens advised to stay in the safety of their homes.”

“Leviathans?” Sam asks.

Crowley shakes his head. “Vampires. I think our friend the Alpha is trying to send me a message.”

“He’s figured out you don’t plan to stop using the additive,” Sam says.

“He has. My sources tell me he’s formed an alliance with the wolves, and maybe the shifters. I hope the new formula you’ve been working on is effective. My plan, not to mention your job, depends on it.”

“It’ll work,” Sam says, feigning confidence.

“Good,” Crowley says. “As I mentioned, if you’re successful I may have some valuable information regarding your brother.”

“I know,” Sam says, gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into tight fists under the table.

“Am I late?” Sam and Crowley both look over to the doorway, where Leon stands, uncertain. He wears a dark fitted suit over a green shirt that confuses his eye colour, and when he arrives at the table Sam catches the scent of his aftershave and it makes his mouth water.

“Not at all darling,” Crowley says. “You’re right on time.” He snaps his fingers and the chair next to Sam pulls itself out from under the table. Leon raises an eyebrow, then sits down carefully. The chair pushes itself in.

“Thanks,” Leon says.

“Just compensating for your incompetent boyfriend. Chivalry really is dead.”

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, but Leon just smiles and takes Sam’s hand under the table, twisting his fingers out of their fists.

“Ah, young love,” Crowley says, as a black-eyed waiter pours wine into their glasses. “How perfectly quaint.”

“How about you mind your own business?” Sam snaps.

“Ah but Leon here _is_ my business now. Tell me, how do you feel about being Sam’s new hunting partner? You’ve got some big shoes to fill, and you know what they say about big shoes.”

Leon’s good hand twitches. “I’m looking forward to killing some monsters,” he says, not rising to the bait. He looks more serious than Sam has ever seen him before, eyes narrowed and jaw tense.

“Ah,” Crowley says. “So the resemblance is more than skin deep, I see.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam warns.

“Relax, I meant it as a compliment.” The waiter returns with a platter of appetizers, and Crowley serves himself as he continues. “Dean is also very attractive,” Crowley says conversationally, to Leon. “Could be a real stunner if he cleans up a little. Nice suit, by the way.”

“Stop it,” Sam orders, but Crowley ignores him.

“He’s smart too, smarter than I gave him credit for at first. And he’s a killer when you cross him. Getting between these two, it’s like standing between a mother bear and her cub.”

“Don’t you mean was?” Leon asks. “Dean _was_ very attractive or whatever.”

Crowley answers without hesitation. “Right, of course.” He raises an eyebrow at Sam only when Leon is looking down at the appetizer tray. “Because Dean is dead, of course. Which is a lucky thing for you because you don’t have to stand between them.” His smile is particularly sadistic.

“Listen,” Leon says, his mouth full of some kind of cheese. “I’m not interested in the past. Dead people are dead, and all we can do is grieve them, avenge them, and then try to move on.”

“That’s a very healthy attitude, even if factually untrue,” Crowley says. ‘I do hope you’ll have a positive influence on our Mr. Winchester. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some work to do. Please enjoy your meal - it’s on me - and have a productive trip.”

He vanishes without warning, leaving behind the faint scent of sulphur.

Leon loosens his tie and then opens the menu. “I’m ordering the most expensive thing on here,” he says spitefully.

 

 

Sam gets his ass kicked by a rugaru. He has a blowtorch on him, of course, but he doesn’t want to use it. This specimen was near impossible to track down, and if he doesn’t test the additive on this one he probably won’t get another shot for months.

But the thing’s stronger than him, and faster, and he hadn’t expect it to transform. He’d just been planning to interview the guy, to figure out what he was getting up against and sneak the chemical into his food or something, avoid a fight if possible. Only now he’s backed against a wall in a hay-filled barn in the middle of fucking nowhere, and even if he uses his blowtorch to save his ass he’ll have to set the whole place on fire.

The rugaru closes his fingers around Sam’s throat and squeezes, just hard enough to immobilize but not kill him, because these things like their food really _really_ fresh. Sam kicks out desperately and lands a pretty solid blow near the guy’s junk, but he doesn’t even react.

“Hey,” Leon says from the doorway, just as Sam’s vision starts to go black around the edges. “Over here.”

The rugaru loosens his grip just enough for Sam to take one gasping breath. He sees Leon raise something to his mouth and then the Rugaru startles, stiffens, and drops Sam before dropping to the ground, foaming at the mouth.

“Your chemical stuff definitely works,” Leon says, crouching next to Sam.

“What did you do?” Sam says, his voice coming out hoarse.

Leon holds up a small wooden tube. “Blowgun,” he says. He points to a clump of red feathers stuck in the rugaru’s neck. “Poisoned dart.”

“That’s genius,” Sam says, struggling to his feet.

“Yeah well I try,” Leon says, putting a supportive arm around Sam’s back. “Can we have Chinese tonight?”

 

 

“Why do you watch the news so much?” Sam asks near the middle of their second week on the road. “It’s not like any of those talking heads know what’s really going on.”

“I know,” Leon answers. “That’s not what I’m watching for.”

“Then what?” Sam asks, before popping an entire oreo into his mouth.

Leon hits mute on the remote, then falls back against the mattress and covers his face with the thin motel pillow. “Okay,” he says, his voice muffled. “I guess I know your secret so it’s only fair.”

Sam puts down the tray of cookies. “Alright, you have my attention.”

“I didn’t leave my job because I felt like going on a road trip. And it wasn’t just bad luck that those demons nabbed me. I was sort of, uh, looking for trouble at the time.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

“My sister. A week before you found me, we were walking back from a concert when we were attacked.” His voice is quiet and strained, barely more than a whisper, so that Sam has to lie down beside him to hear through the pillow he’s still holding over his face. He describes what happened methodically. “They pushed me down, and before I could do anything one of them bit Linda, then made her drink blood from his wrist. I was too frozen in shock to do anything until they were gone. They took her with them.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I know,” Leon says. “So you aren’t the only one with a dead sibling. Well, mine might not be technically dead. Being a vampire is worse than that.”

Sam just nods. He figures there’s no point telling Leon Dean was once turned too, not when his sister has undoubtedly already tasted human blood and made the change irreversible. “So you were looking for revenge?”

“Yeah, though I also just wanted answers. Obviously no one believed me when I told them what I’d seen. The cops said I had some kind of stress-induced hallucination, but I knew better.”

“And then you bumped into me and I had those answers. I wondered why you were so eager to hit the road.”

Leon tosses the pillow aside. “Well I _did_ think you were hot, but yeah, I may have had ulterior motives.” He shoots Sam a small smile.

“I feel so used,” Sam declares dramatically, eager to cheer Leon up.

“Dude, you hooked up with me because I look like your hot dead brother!”

“Oh my god are we making jokes about that now?” It seems too late to explain that Dean isn’t technically dead.

“I laugh to keep from crying,” Leon says, straight-faced. “Anyway, I watch the news in case I see her, or her body. Now hand over the fucking cookies.”

Sam does as he’s told, then switches off the television. Leon licks the icing out of the centre of an Oreo while Sam watches.

“You wanna fuck?” Leon asks after he swallows.

“So much yes,” Sam says, leaning in to kiss his chocolate-flavoured mouth.

 

 

In Missoula, they stand at the top of a staircase and drop balloons filled with additive-laced water on top of the ghouls. Leon is all for avoiding hand-to-hand combat when possible since he’s still in a cast, and honestly the thrill has mostly gone out of it for Sam, too. The ghouls gasp and shout in surprise, and enough of the additive gets into their mouths because they don’t even make it halfway up the staircase before dropping dead.

“Score another point for Team Us,” Leon says. “That about covers it, doesn’t it?”

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “That’s all the major players. Stuff’s about ready to go into production.”

“You gonna tell Crowley?” Leon asks, grabbing one of the ghouls by its foot. They’ll burn the bodies in the backyard.

“Eventually,” Sam says. “There’s something I need to do first. Meet me back at the motel in a couple of hours?”

Leon narrows his eyes, then shrugs. “Okay, whatever. I guess I can burn these motherfuckers all by myself _with a broken wrist._ ”

“Thanks,” Sam says, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “Order dinner, too, ‘kay?”

Leon rolls his eyes. “I’m not your Stepford Wife.”

“You’re the best!” Sam calls over his shoulder, already halfway to the door.

 

 

Sam goes down into a deserted parking garage - people know better than to go underground these days - and dumps a gallon of human blood he’s stolen from a blood bank onto the cement floor.

The vampires arrive in less than a minute, at least six of them, materializing out of the shadows. But they don’t strike immediately. They hesitate, uncertain. Sam knows biting a human is like playing Russian roulette for them these days.

“My name is Sam Winchester,” he calls out to them. “I’m the one who’s poisoning your food supply, and I want you to take me to your leader.”

 

 

“I’m glad you finally decided to come to me,” the Alpha Vampire says from the head of the table. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

Sam hasn’t forgotten. He hasn’t forgotten the little boy and the teenage girl brainwashed into thinking they’re the vampire’s children, the way he used them as a living, breathing source of clean food, or the way he and Dean had vowed to come after him once the Leviathans were out of the way.

He also hasn’t forgotten that the Alpha Vamp, like all of Eve’s firstborn children, comes from Purgatory.

“You know I haven’t forgotten,” Sam says. “Thousands of your children have died because of my work.”

“I’m aware of that,” the Alpha sneers. “So tell me what’s to stop me from killing you now?”

Sam holds up one hand, his thumb hovering over the ‘Send’ button for the text he’s composed. “I’ve been testing two different formulas. One of them works and one of them doesn’t. You come near me and I’ll tell Crowley which is which.”

“My children are dying anyway,” the Alpha argues. “Your current formula works well enough on us.”

“Crowley plans to replace that formula with this new one,” Sam counters. “Which should wipe out not only vampires, but the rest of the bottom-feeders too. He’s just waiting for my confirmation.”

The Alpha narrows his eyes, takes a slow, thoughtful sip from the goblet of thick red liquid on the table. “I assume you’re willing to send him the incorrect formula,” he says.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Sam says innocently. “For the right price. Now what I want -”

“I know a spell to retrieve Dean from Purgatory,” the Alpha interrupts. “I’ve known for weeks. You took your time meeting with me, Sam.”

“Tell me,” Sam says. It takes all the breath left in his lungs to say the words.

“You won’t like what I have to say,” the Alpha warns.

“Tell me.”

“You first.”

Sam looks down at his phone, changes a few key digits, sends the text. “There. They’ll waste at least a week producing truckloads of useless chemical soup. It won’t so much as leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. Your turn.”

The Alpha relaxes, leaning back against his chair. “It’s a charm. Very powerful, very old. I’ve recalibrated it to work across the dimensional divide.” He pauses, as it waiting for Sam to be impressed.

“So?”

The Alpha sighs. “It’s a Latin incantation and a few moderately rare ingredients. I’ve already collected them for you. You could have your brother back within the hour.”

Sam’s heart leaps in his chest.

“There’s just one catch,” the Alpha continues. “The law of conservation of matter. You can’t just go around throwing the universe out of balance. Everything you remove from Purgatory must be replaced by something else - swapped out, if you will.”

“Fine,” Sam says, grimacing. He’ll trick a demon into trading places with Dean.

“You don’t understand,” the Alpha says, as if reading Sam’s mind. “You can’t use just anyone. You need a _sacrifice_ , and a powerful one, to bridge the gap between Earth and Purgatory. It takes a lot of juice to open that door, as you know.”

Sam doesn’t like the sound of that. “What do I need to do?” he asks, mouth already going dry.

“You need to give up your most beloved - whomever on Earth you hold most dear. If you send them to Purgatory, you can extract one being from its depths in exchange.”

Sam’s blood runs cold.

“Do you know who your sacrifice is, Sam?” The Alpha is somber; Sam sees a flicker of something like sympathy in his eyes.

“Yes,” Sam says. “I know who you mean.”

“I’m sorry,” the Alpha says, and Sam nearly believes him. “There’s no other way. I don’t make the rules.”

“I know,” Sam says. A vampire moves from the side of the room, offers Sam a piece of parchment covered in Latin scrawlings and a small burlap sack. “Thank you,” he says, taking them.

“Good luck,” the Alpha says as Sam turns to leave. “Come back and visit again soon. And bring Dean with you.”

Sam doesn’t answer. Instead he hurries out of the mansion, kneels on its perfectly manicured lawn, and vomits into the grass.

 

 

Leon is less than perfectly happy to see him when he arrives back at the motel, hours of aimless driving later.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, where the fuck have you been? I’ve been calling you for an hour,” he snaps.

“Sorry,” Sam says, forcing his voice to stay neutral. “I got caught up in something.”

Leon stares up at him, and Sam has trouble meeting his eyes. It’s always been Leon’s eyes that seem wrong to Sam, because they aren’t the right color, aren’t _Dean_ enough. And looking at them now reminds Sam just how easily he could trade Leon’s blue eyes for the ones he really wants to see, would _die_ to see again.

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?” Leon says, and Sam can only shake his head. “Alright. Keep your secrets. I guess I have to trust you.”

If there was anything left in his stomach, Sam would need to throw up again. “Did you burn the bodies okay?” he asks.

“Of course I did; I’m not an idiot. Here, eat, though it’s totally cold.” He shoves a carton of Chinese food at Sam - sweet and sour pork, his favourite.

“Thanks,” Sam says.

“Did you get in touch with Crowley?”

“Yes,” Sam says, and he’s technically telling the truth. “We should head back first thing in the morning.”

“Sure,” Leon agrees. “Whatever you say. Listen, it’s late and I’m tired. I’m gonna turn in.”

It’s not like Sam has any right to feel hurt, not given the choice he’s considering. He may not know it, but Leon has every right to be angry at Sam, every right to feel betrayed by his silence and dishonesty. So when Leon strips down to his boxers, switches out the lights, and climbs into bed without speaking ,Sam does the same, lying safely on his side of the single king bed they routinely book in their motel rooms, careful not to touch.

The silence is heavy between them. Sam knows Leon isn’t sleeping by the tension in his muscles, by his quick, anxious breathing. Finally, after what feels like hours, Leon sighs heavily and turns to face him.

“Oh Sam,” he says. “This is one screwed up relationship.”

“I know,” Sam answers, relieved that the silence is broken. “It’s mostly my fault.”

“You’re right about that.” Leon laughs, but there’s a heaviness in it, like the joke isn’t really funny. “It’s pretty much impossible to compete with a dead guy.”

“Sorry,” Sam says. But he recognizes just how right Leon is, just how obvious Sam’s choice is and always has always been. Leon is beautiful, funny and kind and has the makings of a damn good hunter in him, but Sam would choose a single day with Dean over a lifetime with anyone else.

“Alright,” Leon says. It doesn’t sound like forgiveness, just temporary acceptance. “C’mere.”

There’s a sadness in Leon’s kiss, like he’s saying goodbye, like he already knows what Sam is going to do. They roll together until Leon is flat on his back with Sam above him. Leon sighs as Sam buries his face in Leon’s throat so he doesn’t need to see his face.

 

 

The next morning is quiet, methodical. They’ve been together long enough for a routine to sneak up on them and solidify, but today it’s less than comfortable. Leon packs his duffel and cleans out the mini-fridge in silence, chewing on a granola bar. Sam doesn’t bother asking if he wants to stop at a diner for breakfast.

It’s grey and humid outside. The air feels thick with moisture, cold and slimy on his skin. He turns on the heat inside the car, even though it’s too early in the year for that. Part of him hopes it will help warm the chilly atmosphere in the car.

“So,” Leon says after an hour on the highway, “was Crowley excited about the formula being finished?”

“He approved,” Sam answers. “Though he won’t once he realizes it doesn’t work.”

“What are you talking about?” Leon asks. “We _saw_ it work.”

Sam nods. “I gave him bad information. You were right. I’m not the type to work for a demon.”

Leon smirks, and Sam is grateful for anything remotely resembling a smile. “You realize,” he says, “that you haven’t just put yourself at risk, right? Crowley knows who I am. You screw him and you screw me too.”

“Trust me,” Sam says, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the road. “That’s not going to be a problem for long.”

He can feel Leon staring at the side of his face. “Alright,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t trust you, but I do. You’ll tell me if there’s anything I need to know?”

Sam nods, swallowing back his guilt.

An hour later they make a rest stop at a gas station with a sign so old Sam can’t even tell what the place is called, and when he gets out of the washroom Leon’s leaning against the hood of the car, with two steaming hot cups of coffee.

“You got a text,” he says. “Charlie doesn’t know how you tracked him down, but he gave you an e-mail address.”

“Oh. Good,” Sam says, taking one of the coffees. It’s so hot it burns his tongue.

“Who’s Charlie, Sam?” Leon asks. There’s suspicion in the question, but it’s such an ordinary, mundane kind of jealousy it makes Sam want to laugh.

“Charlie is a friend of mine,” Sam says. “A hacker. I want _her_ help with something.”

“Okay,” Leon says, still tense.

“Also, she’s a lesbian,” Sam adds.

“Oh,” Leon says, and Sam grins at the way his grip on the styrofoam coffee cup relaxes.

“I can’t believe you’re actually jealous,” Sam says with a grin. “You’re planning to break up with me once we hit Chicago, anyway.”

Leon’s sharp inhale confirms Sam’s suspicion. “Even if that were true,” Leon says carefully, setting down his coffee, “it doesn’t mean I can’t object to to you finding somebody else already.”

Sam puts down his coffee and leans in close against the cold, damp air, holds Leon’s cold cast-free hand between his own. “I know I’ve been the world’s worst boyfriend and I don’t blame you for ending it, but I need you to know you really do matter to me,” Sam says.

Leon looks down at his feet, awkward. Public displays of affection aren’t usually their style, especially not outside of the safety of the car or motel rooms.”Okay,” he says. “Whatever.”

“I mean it,” Sam says. He takes Leon’s coffee away from him, sets it down on the hood of the car. “In a less tragic universe I think we might have been able to make this work.”

“I know,” Leon says. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

“I want to. I think you deserve to know that I love you, at least as much as I’m capable of it.”

Leon looks up, surprised. “Why are you telling me this now?” he asks. “It’s kind of mean.”

“Do you love me too?” Sam asks, cupping Leon’s face in his hands so that he can’t avoid eye contact.

“I’m not answering that, asshole,” Leon answers, pulling away violently. “Can you drop it now?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, picking up his coffee and walking around to the driver’s side of the car. He hopes he knows what the answer is, even if Leon can’t say it.

 

 

Sam doesn’t bring a gun, though he does tuck the last vial of the working vamptonite in the back pocket of his jeans, and the demon-killing knife into the inside pocket of his best blazer. He’s not sure how he’s going to sneak the knife past security, but if worse comes to worst he’ll resort to violence.

He makes sure the attachments are all there before he sends an e-mail to the Alpha vampire, via the secure, untraceable connection Charlie had provided for him.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Leon asks. They’re back in Sam’s usual Chicago motel room, but neither of them expects to spend the night together. Leon plans to leave him after this last mission and Sam, well, Sam knows he’s not going to be around long enough for that to happen, anyway.

“No, I need to do this on my own,” Sam says. “You just meet me in the warehouse by 11:30, okay?”

“I know. You’ve reminded me about a thousand times. Though I’d really like to know what we’re supposed to be doing there.”

“You’re helping me with a spell. Just do this one last thing for me and you’ll never see me again, I promise.”

Leon bites his lip. “Whatever you say, Captain Cryptic.” He switches on the television, over-casual, flipping past the late-night infomercials already flooding the channels. He’d had his cast taken off two days ago, in the same hospital he’d originally received it six weeks before. “See you in an hour.”

Sam wants to say something else. Wants to confess, apologize, beg for understanding or forgiveness. But instead he just leaves quietly.

He checks that the incantation and the burlap sack of ingredients are safely stowed in the backseat before he starts the engine, heading toward the outskirts of the city and Crowley’s mansion.

 

 

The butler demon at the door doesn’t look surprised to see Sam, and doesn’t bother searching him for weapons. When Sam demands an audience with the boss he merely smirks, before turning and gesturing for Sam to follow.

He shows Sam into Crowley’s empty office, dimly lit in the evening. Sam remembers first walking into this room months ago and begging for a job. It looks just the same, from the long polished table to the cushy chairs and the decanter of obviously expensive scotch on the side table.

Crowley keeps Sam waiting for a full fifteen minutes, and Sam struggles to keep from checking his watch every thirty seconds. The ritual needs to be performed at midnight, when the veils between the worlds are thinnest.

“Sam,” Crowley says. “What an unexpected surprise.” Crowley appears without warning across the room. “Care for a drink?”

Sam shakes his head, so Crowley walks to the side table and pours himself a generous portion of scotch, drinking it down in one long swallow.

“You knew the bone would backfire on Dean,” Sam says. It’s the first time he hasn’t felt guilty saying his brother’s name since it happened. “You knew all about Heavenly weapons.”

Crowley shrugs. “So I did,” he says. “You never asked. And honestly, I can’t be blamed for your lack of thoroughness in your research, or your angel’s addled brain.”

“You could have warned us,” Sam says, voice rising. “You could have prevented all of this!” He reaches into his jacket for the knife.

“It worked out rather nicely for me,” Crowley says. “You’re quite useful with big brother out of the way.”

Sam pulls the knife out, relishing the way it warms immediately in his hand.

“Sam,” Crowley says calmly, “You’re not going to kill me. You forget that I have a pet prophet. You can try to take your revenge, but he assures me you’ll fail.”

Uncertainty momentarily grips Sam’s heart. But then he laughs. After all, he has absolutely nothing to lose.

Crowley pours himself another drink. “Have you finally gone mad?” he says. “Was it the prospect of killing your little boyfriend?” He sounds practically gleeful, losing all his dignified calm and revealing himself as just another sadistic demon. It makes Sam feel a little sad, but it also strengthens Sam’s resolve. Crowley _had_ known about the spell then, and he hadn’t told Sam.

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by a yell from downstairs. The butler, he knows. This is followed by a chorus of strangled yells and high-pitched screams, and the stomping footsteps of Crowley’s security force springing into action, much too late.

There will be vampires at every door and window to the mansion by now, and werewolves too, armed with all the holy water and salt they can carry. Sam had provided both the floorplans and the weapons.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Crowley yells, and Sam knows from his expression and the undignified way he spits when he talks that Kevin hasn’t warned him about this.

“I think I’ll make my exit,” Crowley says. He snaps his fingers...and nothing happens.

Sam smiles, walks across the room, and lifts up the corner of the thick rug Crowley is standing on. Underneath, the corner of of a white demon’s trap painted onto the hardwood floor peeks out at them both.

“Thanks for keeping me waiting,” Sam says. “I had plenty of time to do a good job on this thing.”

Crowley practically growls, but he doesn’t have time to say anything before the door to the office bursts open, flying off its hinges. The Alpha vampire stalks into the room in the wake of the blast.

 

 

“Well, well, well,” the Alpha purrs. “It appears the hunter has become the hunted. Thank you for your assistance, Sam. I’m glad we’ve set our differences aside.”

Sam nods, tightening his grip on the demon-killing knife.

“You’ve killed thousands of my children with your little potion, demon,” the Alpha vamp says. “Now you’ll die like the coward you are.”

Crowley scoffs, eyes narrowed with absolute hatred. “You think aligning with the vampires is any better than working with demons, Sam?,” he says, ignoring the Alpha entirely. “You think Dean would be proud of you?”

“Maybe not,” Sam says, stepping forward. “But Leon will be.” He stabs Crowley through the throat, echoing the way Dean had finally killed Dick Roman. Evil dictator bastards are all more or less the same, as it turns out.

The familiar white electricity surges through Crowley’s body, radiating from the knife. The demon is dead, but the Alpha vamp can’t help himself, can’t let Sam have all the glory. He rushes past Sam and leaps on the empty vessel, tearing hungrily at its throat.

Less than five seconds later he pulls away, rigid and gasping. There’s blood on his face, but in the corners of his mouth the flesh sizzles and peels.

“Be careful,” Sam says belatedly. “I think there might have been something in Crowley’s scotch.”

He steals Crowley’s keys out of his vest pocket and drops the empty vamptonite vial on the Alpha’s lifeless body as he leaves. “Now _that_ Dean will be proud of,” he says to the empty room, before he breaks into a run.

 

 

There are no guards in Crowley’s dungeon; they’re all busy fighting upstairs, not yet aware that their king is dead.

“Sam!” a voice calls out in the dark when he arrives, and for once it isn’t Meg. “Sam! Did it work?”

Sam hurries to Kevin’s cell and unlocks it, wincing at the bruising on the kid’s face. “He’s dead,” Sam says, and Kevin practically sags with relief. “I lied,” he says. “I told them the truth a thousand little times until they trusted me. I saved up for one big lie.”

“Well, I sure am glad you used it on me,” Sam says, helping Kevin to his feet. Upstairs, he hears howling and screaming as the leaderless armies tear each other apart.

Sam walks back to the closest cell to the staircase.

Meg raises one eyebrow at him. “Being a hero, Winchester?” she drawls. “I guess it’s in the blood.”

Sam fumbles with Crowley’s keys and unlocks the cell. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing deeply to her. “The king is dead, and I hereby name you his successor.”

Meg grins as he hands over the demon-killing knife, hilt-first. “Does this mean you solved your Purgatory problem?” she asks.

“Sort of,” Sam answers. “But it’s only good for one.”

Meg practically pouts. “Poor angel,” she says. “I kind of liked having a pet.” She grips the knife tight. “But if I have to I’ll do this all on my own.”

“I’m counting on it,” Sam says. “Do me a favour?”

“I guess I owe you one,” Meg says.

“Get the kid out of here alive,” Sam says, gesturing at Kevin. “And don’t let ambition get the best of you.”

“You bet,” Meg calls after him, as Sam makes a break for the stairs. “All I want is a really fucking comfortable throne.”

If she says anything else Sam doesn’t hear it. He ignores the chaotic battle still raging around him, sneaking out a back entrance and around to the Impala, where he’d left the keys in the ignition. The tires squeal as he speeds out of Crowley’s twisted driveway, and toward a nearby abandoned warehouse.

It’s half an hour to midnight.

 

 

Leon is sitting cross-legged in a shaft of moonlight when Sam arrives, burlap sack and parchment gripped tightly in one hand. Sam is relieved to see him; he had worried (or maybe hoped) Leon might realize something was wrong and decide not to show up.

The fact that he trusts Sam won’t make this any easier, but it will probably make it more likely to work.

Leon stands when he sees Sam, but Sam doesn’t have time for a greeting. He pulls powders and plants and dark, foul-smelling liquids out of the sack, dumping them together into a copper bowl. He lights a candle.

“What are you doing?” Leon asks. He’s very pale. “Did it work?”

“Crowley’s dead, and the Alpha vamp too,” Sam answers. He doesn’t have time to look up from the chalk outlines he’s copying onto the cement floor, but he hopes that makes Leon smile, makes him feel a bit better about his sister.

“That’s good, right? So why are you so freaked out?”

“There’s no time,” Sam says breathlessly, checking his work. He’s drawn two chalk circles on the ground, two feet apart. There’s a set of complicated runes bordering each, slightly different. The tiny differences are all-important. One of the circles represents Earth, and the other Purgatory.

“Stand here,” Sam says, dragging Leon by the arm until he stands in the centre of his circle.

“Why?” Leon asks, his voice shaking. “Sam, what are you doing to me?”

Sam’s stomach twists. He doesn’t like to think about that. Instead, he stays busy, placing the copper bowl between the two circles, and letting the candle float on its surface, as per the instructions on the parchment.

He hands the parchment to Leon, takes off his jacket and sets it aside, then stands in the other circle. “Read this,” he orders.

“It’s not even in English,” Leon objects. “ Sam, you’re scaring me.”

“Just sound it out,” Sam says, glancing down at his watch anxiously. Two minutes. “And when you finish there’ll be this guy with you, okay? He’ll probably be wearing a trenchcoat and he’s a little weird, but he’s a friend. You won’t be totally alone.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Leon screams. The candle flame flickers.

“Do you love me?” Sam asks. He looks into Leon’s blue, blue eyes one last time.

“Yes,” Leon says. “God help me, yes.”

“Then read,” Sam says, already on autopilot. And Leon does.

Sam closes his eyes against the rhythmic Latin, lets it sweep him up. A loud boom like a thunderclap drowns out the beeping of the watch on Sam’s wrist, and then the ground shakes violently and he falls.

 

 

When Leon opens his eyes the first thing he sees is the candle, snuffed out and rolled into the chalk circle with him. He coughs violently, clearing dust from his lungs, then sits up.

Sam is gone. In his place in the other chalk circle is a man also in the process of getting to his feet. He has dark hair and is wearing a dirty trenchcoat and what look like formerly-white hospital scrubs. The warehouse is still pitch dark but for a few shafts of moonlight, so Leon can’t have been unconscious for long.

“Who are you?” Leon calls towards the strange man, but he doesn’t answer. He bends over the copper bowl, its contents spilled, and dips one finger into the mixture before bringing it to his mouth. He frowns at its taste, then retrieves the crumpled parchment Sam had made Leon read from the ground.

“These notations are in Sam Winchester’s handwriting,” the man says, his voice deeper than Leon expects. “You sent him to Purgatory?”

“What?” Leon gasps. He feels dizzy and nauseous and profoundly cold. “No, I didn’t! I mean, I don’t know _what_ I did.”

The man nods. “Winchesters aren’t fond of direct communication,” he says. “Based on these instructions it appears that you - apparently unwittingly - pulled me from Purgatory and sent Sam there in my place.”

Leon shivers with horror. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Why would he _ask_ me to send him to Purgatory?” He can’t stop shivering.

“I suspect,” the man says, picking Sam’s jacket up off the ground and offering it awkwardly to Leon, “because he wanted to be with Dean.”

“Dean’s dead!” Leon exclaims.

“Is that what he told you?” the man asks, tilting his head to examine Leon like a specimen under a microscope.

Self-conscious, Leon shoves his shaking hands into the pockets of Sam’s jacket, and comes out with a set of keys and a note scribbled onto motel stationary. He doesn’t really want to read it, but he also doesn’t feel like he has a choice.

 _I’m sorry_ it reads, _and thank you. I’ll let you decide what to do with this._

Underneath is a set of letters and numbers Leon knows must be the formula for the chemical they’d tested for Crowley, and three phone numbers, labelled _Charlie_ and _Sheriff Mills_ and _Meg_ , respectively.

The strange man is suddenly standing too close to him. “My name is Castiel,” he says, too loud. “I’m an angel of the Lord.” Castiel was one of the words Leon had read off the parchment, one Sam had inserted into the other, unfamiliar looping script. The blank, Leon realizes, Sam had filled in.

“I’m Leon,” he says.

“Sam must have meant a great deal to you, for this spell to have succeeded,” Castiel says. “It’s powered by emotion.”

Leons swallows hard. “We hunted together,” he says simply. He tucks the note carefully back into its pocket.

Castiel’s gaze is full of too much sympathy. “He must have cared a great deal about you as well, to leave you the keys to his car,” he says kindly.

“Maybe,” Leon says. He squeezes the keyring so hard it digs into his palm. “You want a ride somewhere?”

“Yes, please,” Castiel answers. He follows Leon out into the cool night, climbing into the Impala’s passenger seat with only a moment’s hesitation. Leon starts the engine, and even through his shock and exhaustion a tiny thrill goes down his spine as it roars to life. He really does love this car.

“”So,” he says. “You any good at killing monsters?”

Castiel’s smile is small, but pleased. “Yes,” he says. “I have thousands of years of experience.”

“I’m looking for a hunting partner,” Leon says, voice tight. He doesn’t need Sam to avenge Linda. “Unless you have something better to do.”

Castiel considers it. “I would like that very much,” he says.

Leon nods. “How long were you in Purgatory?” He wants to ask about Dean, wants to satisfy his morbid curiosity about the man he couldn’t compete with, but the name feels off-limits somehow, like it belonged to Sam and now that he’s gone he has no right to say it aloud. “I guess I should catch you up on what you’ve missed.”

Castiel’s eyes glaze over briefly. “The Leviathans are running amok,” he says. “Crowley is dead and so is the last Alpha. You and Sam created the weapon that killed him, that could kill all of them.” He smiles. “And Meg is alive!”

Leon tries not to let his mouth hang open. “How do you know all that?”

“Angel,” Castiel says simply.

Oh, right. Leon remembers the note Sam left him. “Hey, do you want Meg’s phone number?”

“Yes,” Castiel says “We will need to be in touch. What do you know about bees?”

“Uh, not much,” Leon says truthfully. The sudden conversation shift doesn’t even phase him; he feels like he’s stumbled into yet another alternate universe.

“The world’s bee population is declining rapidly,” Castiel says, adopting a professorial tone. “Scientists believe this signals the beginning of a sixth major extinction on the planet. Human beings have destroyed their habitat. There are too few flowers left for them to pollinate.”

Leon waits, but Castiel falls into contented silence. “And?” he says.

“Oh,” Castiel says, snapped out of his reverie. “The bees perform a valuable service. Without them, tens of thousands of flowering fruits and vegetables will struggle to survive. And that in turn will have an impact on your human economy, to the value of nearly fifteen billion dollars per year.”

Leon’s been through a lot tonight, but somehow he doubts this would make sense even if he’d had a full night’s sleep, a good meal, and hadn’t accidentally damned his boyfriend to an eternity in another dimension. “And?” he repeats.

“We’re all interconnected,” Castiel says, practically bouncing in his seat. “It’s beautiful! When you remove one factor its effect on the entire equation is unpredictable and incalculable. “

Leon thinks he’s catching on now. “You’re talking about the chemical, right? You think I shouldn’t use it on the vampires and everything else.”

Castiel grins brightly, glad to be understood. “I think you need to be aware just how enormous a responsibility Sam’s trusted you with,” he says.

“Oh,” Leon says. He hadn’t thought of it like that. “I wish he were here instead of me. He’d know what to do better than I do.”

Castiel hums a little under his breath. “Sam didn’t think so,” he says.

“What?”

“The spell he used could have worked differently,” Castiel says. “You and I could be together in a very different place right now.”

“He could have brought Dean back?” Leon says. Perfect Dean. “Why didn’t he?” Leon knows he wouldn’t have objected, would have played along and stood in the other chalk circle while Sam read the Latin, read Dean’s name where Leon had read Castiel’s.

Castiel puts his feet up on the dash. “Because deep down Sam Winchester isn’t a sinner,” he says. “And maybe because he thinks it’s time to let someone else save the world.”

Leon remembers the way Sam had so casually told him he’d saved the world two or three times already, remembers it as the moment he’d really fallen in love. And he remembers telling Sam that he’d earned the right, then, to be totally and spectacularly fucked up. He thinks of Sam and Dean together in Purgatory and he hopes they both get what they deserve.

Leon reaches down to switch on the radio, then focuses his attention on the horizon and the slowly rising sun. He has work to do.

 

Even before he opens his eyes, Sam knows the spell has worked. He can feel damp grass under his bare arms, not dry cement. The air smells earthy and a breeze is humid against his cheek. He is very, very cold.

Sam keeps his eyes closed until he hears it.

“Oh my god,” Dean gasps. “Sam? Sammy!”

When he opens his eyes, Dean’s are looking down at him, anxious and confused and blissfully green. Dean’s fingers are hot on his face.

“What are you doing here, Sammy?” Dean says. Sam loves the sound of his voice. “Where’s Cas? What did you do?”

Sam doesn’t answer, reaches up to touch Dean’s face instead. He can see Dean start to figure it out, see the horror dawning on his face. But Sam knows he’s done the right thing. He and Dean have a way of fucking up the world, so the world is better off without them.

In Purgatory they’ll be together forever.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dean says. His breath is hot against Sam’s face. They are very close together.

“Dean,” Sam croaks, pulling his brother down into a kiss.

If it makes him a monster, well, he’s already exactly where he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> My belated S7 coda that got a wee bit longer than expected. Thanks to evian_fork and lookturtles for beta work.


End file.
